


Like a Record

by SongOfMarbule



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 06:51:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13518825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongOfMarbule/pseuds/SongOfMarbule
Summary: Ignis? Singing in HIS kitchen?It was more likely than he thought.





	Like a Record

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my silly thing I wrote for Promnis Week Day 6! The prompt was "Dancing", and, well, I've been listening to '80s music nonstop lately, so... this happened as a result. <3

Prompto woke that morning to an empty dip on the opposite side of the bed and lukewarm sheets in its stead. Ignis was already up. Normally, that wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary (he liked to sleep in; Ignis didn’t), but after their rather...late night together the previous evening, Prompto had expected to see Ignis’ snoring face right in front of him the second he opened his eyes. Apparently, not even staying up until 3AM could keep Ignis Scientia away from his 7AM cup of Ebony. He had a little bit of a problem.

Yawning, Prompto rolled over to check the time on his phone. 9:27AM. Still too early for him, but the guilt of being a lazy ass while Ignis had likely been up for hours won the battle against the sleepies in his eyes. He forced himself out of bed, pulled on a random pair of boxers that were lying on the floor (were they even his?) and set out to go about his zombie-like morning routine.

On his way to the bathroom, though, his footsteps slowed to a halt when he heard something in the air. It was muffled and low, but the way it seemed to bounce up and down and drone constantly told Prompto that it was music. Music. Huh. That was odd. Was Ignis listening to the radio? Ignis wasn’t really a huge fan of the radio (“too much mindless drabble instead of music”, he’d say) so if he was in fact listening to the radio, well, it was a rare occasion. Curious, Prompto slowly padded down the hall, stopping when he approached the kitchen doorway.

Oh, it was the radio, all right. But what intrigued him more was the additional hum in the air, the one that wasn’t blaring from the speakers. 

Ignis, dressed in his favourite powder-pink robe with his usual apron strapped to his front, hummed along to the radio, a carton of eggs in one hand as he rifled through the refrigerator with the other. “Ah,” he declared when he found what he was looking for, exchanging the eggs for the brick of butter that had been buried behind several takeout containers in Leftover Hell. He closed the door with a bump of his hip, turning to head for the counter where he’d been working. A whole slew of ingredients lined the surface, and on the stove sat various pots and pans in several states of meal prep. Apparently, Ignis was planning a huge breakfast.  _ Dude must have been starving after last night, _ Prompto thought to himself, smirking.

While Ignis chopped some choice vegetables, the radio’s song changed. A familiar ‘80s synth-riff blared, and with it Ignis’ hum began to bloom into something more. Prompto felt his breath hitch in his throat and the hair on his arms stand on end while he listened. Wait. Was… was he…?

“I set my sights on you,” Ignis sang, after the first verse had blended with the sizzling roar of the frying pan. “And no one else will do.”

Prompto’s eyes widened.

Ignis? Singing? In their kitchen?

This rare event needed to be recorded. But dammit, of  _ course  _ he didn’t have his phone on him. And then, as if the singing hadn’t been enough of a rarity on its own, there came the hip shimmy not long after to accompany it.

“Open up your lovin’ arms, watch out, here I come.” Ignis tossed the vegetables he’d just chopped into the frying pan, a contented hiss spitting upon impact.

Prompto grinned.

“You spin me right ‘round baby, right ‘round,” Ignis continued. “Like a record baby, right ‘round, ‘round ‘round.”

_ Holy crap, _ Prompto hissed internally. His hands balled into fists as his grin grew wider.  _ Ignis is singing along to Dead or Alive. While cooking. _

Ignis turned on his heels, spinning in a little half circle before he reached for an egg. His foot tapped on the floor, the sharp  _ clink _ of the egg cracking against a bowl syncing to the beat of the music.

And with that, Prompto couldn’t take it anymore. Amusement brimmed through him, drawing him over to his partner like a magnetic pull. He briskly left his temporary hiding spot and skidded into the kitchen, sliding on his socks as he belted out the next lines of the song. 

“I got to be your friend now, baby; and I would like to move in just a little bit closer,” Prompto crooned, doing a twirl of his own; a performer in front of his one-man audience on the stage that was the kitchen floor.

Ignis, startled, practically jumped ten feet in the air, spatula in hand as he held it in front of himself in a defensive stance. “P-Prompto,” he stuttered, eyes wide in surprise. He glanced at the radio, as if he were debating turning it off and erasing the last one minute and thirty seconds from this timeline, but before he had a chance to, Prompto approached him.

“All I know is that to me---” Prompto sang, reaching his hands out toward Ignis.

“Prompto---”

“---you look like you’re having fun---” Prompto stepped close, tilting up on his tiptoes so their noses nearly touched.

“What are you---”

“Open up your loving arms, watch out, here I come!”

Prompto snatched the spatula away from Ignis, dropping it on the counter with a discarded  _ clunk _ . Taking both of the man’s hands hostage, he pulled Ignis closer to himself and gave him a quick kiss. “You spin me right ‘round, baby, right ‘round,” he sang, the grin returning to his face.

Ignis laughed, a gentle titter that made Prompto’s heart sing a song of its own. “Prompto, just what are you doing?” he asked, his pitch higher than normal.

“Like a record baby, right ‘round, ‘round ‘round,” Prompto continued, lifting their arms as he twirled Ignis around in a circle. He winked as he placed a hand on Ignis’ shoulder.

Ignis was still laughing, and after the initial shock of being caught in the act wore off, suddenly, they were  _ dancing _ . Each drag of their feet and tap of their heels to the rhythm sent their bodies gliding about the kitchen floor, moving as one. Prompto was in the lead to start, keeping up his singing, but after another line or two Ignis took over the dancing lead while Prompto gave a little “ooooh” in delight.

Then, while Ignis dipped Prompto low to the ground, they became a duet.

“I want your looooooooooooove,” they belted out in unison. Ignis kept the note going, and while Prompto tried to keep it up, he failed, voice breaking with a burst of laughter.

Ignis swooped Prompto upright again, another full turn to follow before he snatched him up in his arms, lifting him clear off the floor. Right ‘round, round round. “I want your looooooooove,” Ignis continued. Prompto was long gone at this point, unable to continue singing. He laughed so hard his stomach hurt, body shaking as he clung to Ignis, pure joy radiating from him.

A few more right ‘rounds later and the song came to an end at last. Prompto, still elevated off the floor, found himself face to face with his taller partner, his arms wrapped around his neck. He tried to catch his breath, but the sight of Ignis’ smiling visage in front of him halted the process.

“Good morning, Prompto,” Ignis greeted cheerfully, his eyes sparkling. In the background, the radio mumbled with the utterings of a radio announcer, an intermission between songs.

“Hey,” Prompto replied. He couldn’t help but laugh again, smiling sweetly as he gave Ignis a kiss. His heart swelled in his chest, amplified with the usual warm fuzzy feelings Ignis often gave him. “Oh man, you and I, I think we’ve got a future in show business, dude.”

“Oh? And what would the name of our double act be?” Ignis inquired lightly.

“Burning Skillet.”

“Oddly specific, don’t you think?”

“Not really, I think it’s plenty appropriate. By the way, I think your skillet is burning.”

And it was. Ignis’ eyes widened, setting Prompto down on his feet immediately so he could tend to the stove. “Drat,” he muttered. “I knew there was a reason why I didn’t listen to the radio much.”

Prompto rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “My bad. Sorry, babe. Don’t worry though, I’ve got this.” He headed for the counter so he could start chopping up more vegetables.

While he worked at replacing the vegetable sacrifice, the commercials came to a halt as yet another ‘80s synth beat blared from the speakers. Feet began to tap on the linoleum from both parties. Heads bobbed, fingers snapped.

“Sweet dreams are made of this,” Ignis gently sang, standing over the garbage can as he scraped burnt food off the skillet’s surface. The spatula scraped back and forth, back and forth, in time with the music.

Prompto’s lips quirked upward, glancing over his shoulder at his partner. Chop, chop, chop, went the knife, the rhythm flowing naturally, much like the sliced tomato’s juices under his knife. “Who am I to disagree?” 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://saturnvalleycoffee.tumblr.com). I've also got a [FFXV sideblog](http://caseofthestolenspecs.tumblr.com), where these short stories are being cross-posted to!


End file.
